Street Fighter: Millennium
by Dare
Summary: At the dawn of the new millenium, the World War begins anew. The first in what will hopefully be an ongoing series. RnR welcome.


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January 25th, 20XX

Maximum Containment Facility AKA Area 52

Location undisclosed.

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He sat in darkness.

For many years he had sat in this darkness, having forsworn the light so long ago. 

For a prisoner, he lived in relative comfort. He had his own private cell, thought that was due to the fact he had slain any other inmate they had tried to put in with him. He couldn't bear to suffer the presence of fools; too much of his life had been that. Along with a bed, he had a finely crafted table, a gift from his late mother so long ago. It was bare, for he could not stand to put anything on it. Beauty was something that should remain unmarred, pristine, and pure. 

Perfect.

There was no mirror in his room, and there had been no mirror for quite some time. In fact, the very first day he had arrived here, five long years ago, he had immediately smashed the small looking glass that had hung above the sink. With bleeding fingers he had attempted to take a shard of the broken mirror and slash his own throat. Alas, a guard had gotten to him before the deed could be done. It was just as well, for the past few years of life had taught him lessons. Valuable lessons, that played in his head every waking moment. But such lessons came only in the dead of night, or every time he closed his eyes and thought of death.

Darkness. Darkness was his refuge. The light was for man; a race he was no longer a part of. He didn't mind, though; humanity was weak and frail, and he was strong. He grew stronger every day he sat here in this world defined by three walls of plaster and one of clear Plexiglas. Strength came from his hate, and so he fed it, nurtured it, with every second that passed.

A smile played across his cracked lips as he thought of what he would do if- not if! _When_ he escaped this place. Those thoughts warmed him, brought him pleasure to the point of giddiness. In fact he would have chuckled to himself if not for the figure that had somehow materialized outside his cell.

It was far past lockdown, and the lights were very dim. Only the dull glow of the hallway security light outlined the form of his visitor. It was a woman, that much he could discern, but not much else.

"Who…" he rasped, his voice a hoarse whisper.

No sooner had she gotten to his feet than she was suddenly face to face with him, having somehow moved beyond the three inch thick, bulletproof, fireproof, and shatterproof plexiglass. He wheeled backward, but only for a moment. He did his best to compose himself as he sized up this newcomer.

"I've come for you," she said, her voice low and oddly resonant. "We haven't much time. You must do everything you are told, and nothing without my permission."

His eyes narrowed, and not just due to the lack of light. "What do you want with me?"

She emitted a low chuckle that could have been a giggle if it hadn't been laced with condescension. "There's time enough for that later. Until then, all I can promise you is…. this."

He found a small velvet pouch being pushed gently into his hands. Not taking his eyes off her, he opened it and then peered inside.

The inmate's breath caught in his throat, and if he had not been fixated on the contents he would have seen his visitor smile.

"Is this…?"

She nodded. "Yes. It is yours regardless of whether or not you come with me, but if you do, I shall give you far more than that. I shall give you freedom…"

This time, he did see her smile.

"And the opportunity for vengeance."

Vengeance. The word played in his ears as though they had been sung. He grasped the bag in his hands and let the smile break fully across his face.

Still, he ventured the question: "Who are you?"

It was then that a guard appeared. The uniformed man rapped his truncheon on the edge of the glass wall.

"Hey Pretty Boy," came the snide remark. "Lights out was an hour ago. Am I gonna hafta come in there and-"

There was a pause as the guard used what he had for a brain and squinted in the low light.

"What th-? There's someone in there with him!"

The guard pulled out his weapon and a flashlight and shone it into the cell. It was at that point where the inmate finally saw the face of his benefactress.

"You…?" was all he managed to say.

The guard was yelling into his walkie-talkie: "We have an intruder, repeat, and intruder in MaxSec Block 11! Code Blue! Repeat, Code Blue!"

"We've wasted enough time," she said, curtly. "We must make our escape, now!"

The inmate shook his head. "You…why…how…?"

"Things are never what they seem." she said with a grin. 

The guard had his weapon trained on them as he fumbled for his cardkey. "I don't know how you got in here, chickie," he said, "but I know a few people who'd love to find that out…"

Her face dropped the smile as her eyes blazed a golden hue. Then, she whirled and thrust a glowing hand out toward the glass wall. The air between her and the guard rippled, and then the glass begin to tremble and bow outward.

            "What in the blazes…?" were the words the guard was able to get out before the wall exploded.

            Despite having large shards of Plexiglas cutting into two major arteries, the guard was still lucid enough to grasp for his walkie-talkie.

            "Emergency," he croaked from where he lay. "Code Red, repeat, Code Red! Intruder is a type A! Code Red! Code-"

            He was cut off as he was hoisted into the air, a small hand exercising an unusually strong grip on his windpipe. The guard hung there in this woman's grip as his blood dripped from him in a dozen places.

            "What-" he gurgled, red dripping from the corners of his mouth. "What are you…?"

            She grinned a predatory grin. "Something far more terrifying than whatever awaits you in the afterlife."

            _SNAP_

            She dropped the guard's limp body as she turned to what was left of the cell. The inmate stood there amidst the ruins of his mother's table, no longer aware that it ever existed. He was staring at her with a look of fear mixed with awe.

            "Coming?" was all she needed to say.

            He hurried in her direction, but she put up a hand. "There's no cause for haste, you know. Why tire yourself?"

As if to answer, an armed contingent of guards appeared in the corridor.

"FREEZE!" one of them bellowed as the rest readied their taser rods and tranquilizer pistols. Under some new regulation, the staff of this place had no lethal weaponry. It was an oversight they would not live to regret.

His benefactress sighed and simply headed in their direction. Darts filled with a heavy sedative were fired at her, but they found no target as she began to weave in and out of their line of fire. In fact she was on top if them before most could even raise a hand in defense.

One guard fell with a scream, his left eye gouged out in less than a second. Another passed out when his kneecap was nearly torn from his body. Two of their companions slid to the ground, their faces reduced to wet red mash from damage dealt from her glowing hands.

The inmate could actually do nothing but watch, fascinated with the savage attacks of this woman who had freed him. Every move was made with intent to kill or cripple, delivered with lightning speed and cold precision.

So engrossed was he in watching her snap the last guard's spine with a hand slap that he nearly missed another guard heading down the adjacent corridor towards him. The guard had his taser rod at the ready and was bearing down on him full speed.

After one moment's hesitation, the inmate dipped his hand into the velvet bag he still clutched. The guard was on him when there was a flash of steel and a scream. The taser rod hit the ground with a clang and was joined soon by the guard's four fingers.

The guard clutched at his mutilated hand, letting out a scream that soon became a mewling gurgle as his throat was opened ear to ear, a crimson torrent spilling down the front of his uniform..

The inmate stood there and watched him die.

"Impressive" said the woman. "I'd have thought that five years rotting in prison would have dulled your skills."

He kept his eyes on the still-twitching form of the guard. "Things are never what they seem," he tossed over his shoulder.

She smiled even wider. "Come along, then."

Twenty minutes or so later, the south most wall of Area 52 blew outward. The inmate and his benefactress stepped out into the bracing winter night, the mangled bodies of the security team behind them.

"What now?" he said. 

"Our ride should be here any second," she reassured him. "I must say I've enjoyed the wait thus far. I've always wanted to see you in action, Senor -"

He held up a hand and shook his head. 

"Stop. That name has no further relevance for me. I am, as I shall always be, Vega…"

He who was once one of the Four Lords of Shadowlaw, looked at his old claw that had finally returned to its rightful place. It was still in excellent shape; no rust or marking save for the deep red blood it was drenched in. The blood shimmered in the moonlight and he found it calming.

"…and I am whole once more…"

"Not yet," she said. "One piece remains of the puzzle, no?"

He looked at her, and then slowly nodded. Vega slowly reached into the velvet bag and pulled out a white piece of porcelain. With quivering hands he fitted what was left of his mask over his face and turned to her.

She smiled. The Mask of Torquemada had been Vega's most prized possession, but had been shattered during that fateful duel five years prior. She'd spent countless dollars to have the remains scrounged and then reassembled. She'd hoped it would be a powerful bargaining chip to gain Vega's trust.

"No."

"Hm?" she uttered. 

Vega had removed the mask from his face and was staring at it. Then, before she could stop him, he grasped it in his hands and broke it cleanly in half. 

"There." Vega placed what was left of the mask over his face and seemed to breathe a sigh of contentment. "Now it is perfect, he said as he turned to face her.

The right side of Vega's face had been scarred, mangled. His cheek bones had been shattered and healed improperly, and as such had turned his once fine and smooth features into a mass of crags, lines, and bumps. His right eye was smaller than his left, the flesh around it having healed oddly after being shoved out of place. He grinned, his broken teeth like the fangs of some animal.

"Now the picture is complete. _I_ am complete," he said, almost in triumph.

His benefactress whispered, "Soon, you will see that you are part of a bigger picture…one that will cover the earth."

"Vengeance…" Vega went on, seeming to not have heard her. "You promised me vengeance…"

She smiled. "Yes, you shall have your revenge, Vega, against the one that did this to you. She, among many others, will pay."

All Vega did was nod.

Dust clouds formed as a large hover vehicle descended from the black sky. It was an enormous machine, but sleek and black, with a familiar skull and chevron symbol adorning its sides.

"Come along," was all she had to say.

The hatch slid closed after the two of them had entered, and the thrusters roared. Soon, the Shadowlaw craft was another speck of snow in the sky.

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New York

Soho District

Exactly Midnight

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"NO!"

The woman known as Rose jerked upright in bed, sweat running down her body and matting her lavender nightgown. Tears and confusion blurred her vision and for a few moments, she didn't know where she was, the room completely dark except for the dim glow of neon light from the outside. But soon, the familiar surroundings of her penthouse suite came into focus, and she let out a ragged, quivering breath.

She didn't stop shaking though, and she wouldn't stop for a while. Even though she drew the thick covers around herself as best she could, still she continued to tremble.

_A nightmare…_ she told herself. _A night terror, nothing more. Control yourself._

But deep inside she knew it was false. A woman such as her, who had lived the life she'd lived and had seen the things she'd seen, never had simple nightmares. She had visions.

Minutes passed. When she finally stopped shaking, Rose decided that going back to sleep was not a desirable option. So she slowly got out of bed, wrapped herself in a lavender robe and padded barefoot towards the kitchen. 

The New York apartment was one of her many properties, and one of her favorites as well. She traveled a great deal, and she found it convenient to have a few different places to stay around the country. It was a bit odd: for someone who owned as many domiciles as she did, she never really called one particular place home. 

As such, none of these places were fully stocked in the way of a pantry. She didn't really eat much as it was, and usually found herself out in the city around mealtimes. And one with her lifestyle never really entertained guests. In other words, the kitchen was nearly bare.

She always, _always_ kept tea handy though.

After putting the kettle on to boil, she found she couldn't shake that feeling of foreboding, an ominous sensation that seemed to pull at the recesses of her consciousness. Rose tried to recall what it was she had seen that terrified her so, what had induced such a unique sense of horror in her. She tried to grasp some lingering image with the ethereal fingers that was her mind. 

After a few moments' pontification, she realized that it was not what she had seen, but rather what she had _felt_. The fear had been on a different level from human consciousness, something beyond mere emotion. 

What she didn't like at all was the…. _familiarity_ of the terror. It was haunting her, how the abject fear she had experienced seemed almost like déjà vu. A phantom pain. It was like a resonance, as if some element of her being was reacting to some outside force. 

_But what?_

The samovar whistled as its contents came to a boil. Rose put her grim ruminations away long enough to grab a cup, saucer, tea ball and a canister of her favorite blend from a cupboard.

Moments later, she walked out into the living room, cup of chamomile –settled the nerves- in hand. She curled up in her wicker chair and set down the tea so that she could wrap herself in the oriental quilt she kept nearby. Rose then regarded the only other modern device in the apartment, an array of multiple televisions. It never hurt to be well informed, and sometimes the nightly news could be just as enlightening as an hour spent in meditation over her spirit cards. 

David Letterman was also indeed the King of Late Night Comedy, in her opinion.

As soon as she clicked the remote's "on" button, the room was filled with flashing light and sound. 

            _"…throwing the nation into complete chaos…"_

_"…der gesamte Bereich ist in Panik getaucht worden…"_

_            "…several groups have claimed responsibility…"_

_"…le forze nazionali sono state schierate…"_

_"…no mere act of terrorism, but the brutality…"_

_"…la quantité de destruction faite chancelle, presque au delà des mots …"_

The terrible cacophony of panicked voices coalesced into a singular feeling of dread right in the very pit of Rose's soul. It mirrored the very terror that had woken her only minutes ago and she knew she hadn't had some random nightmare. In moment her fears became realized as a singular word began to flash on the multiple screens.

Shadowlaw.

Rose could only whisper, "It's begun again."

At the Dawn of the New Millennium, the World War Begins Anew

STREET FIGHTER: Millennium

TO BE CONTINUED


End file.
